


After Death

by snarkyscorp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-23
Updated: 2010-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkyscorp/pseuds/snarkyscorp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two sides to every story, even after death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Death

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [**dark_fest**](http://dark-fest.livejournal.com) for the prompt "I care too much about you". I have a kind of secret love for Dumbledore/Harry, so yeah, I went there.

**.Harry.**

Harry visits Dumbledore's portrait twice a day.

The first time is understandable—Harry needs advice. Dumbledore is a patient man, even in the afterlife, and smiles down in his old, kind way with twinkling eyes, giving Harry what he needs. There is a simple understanding between them, a give and take, a _may I_ and _you're welcome_ back and forth. It is easy, just like before, and Harry feels satisfied when he leaves.

The second time is strange—Harry needs to feel satisfied again. There are endless questions bleeding out of his mouth, and the disease spreads from his thoughtless head to his heartless chest to his soulless insides and beyond, to the places emotions and feelings used to reach but which is now void and dull. Harry begs Dumbledore for the answers, but Dumbledore is only a portrait, and there is a limit to the things he can give. Harry leaves with questions hanging on his tongue.

The third time is devastating—Harry needs more. His skin itches like it's been set on fire and turned to ashes. His lips constantly form words that don't exist, fingers stretch towards hands that aren't there, and ghosts haunt the empty expanse of his bed. While his scar may no longer warn of danger, Harry can still feel it searing his skin. He tells Dumbledore, talks until Dumbledore has to scream to silence him. Harry has never heard Dumbledore scream like that, with his voice husky and dangerous. He watches Dumbledore's nostrils flare, watches the grit of his teeth and the hard line of his jaw under the thick of his white beard. When Harry leaves, there is something new under his skin, scuttling like a bug through his blood and veins.

So it begins, with Harry asking and Dumbledore screaming, until Harry needs to hear those screams once in the morning and once again at night to ease the strange sizzle under his flesh. He walks through Hogwarts like a disembodied specter between his visits, sleeps with dreams of them rushing his head like a flood, and nobody understands because nobody can ever know.

**.Dumbledore.**

Dumbledore waits for no man, but he waits for a boy. Twice every day, Harry comes searching for the dark parts of his life so far strewn to the further recesses of his mind. Dumbledore understands, of course, because he was young once, and a long time ago, the trembling heart of a boy in love beat within his breast.

Harry looks nothing like Grindelwald; there are no wild, gleeful looks about Harry these days, but when he frowns, Dumbledore can almost see something there, can almost wish himself back in time to 1945 to erase the damage and set things right, further back to 1899 when he first met the boy who changed his life, before things came crashing down around him, before age withered his frame and the celibate life became his dignity. He can almost taste Harry's lips when they are pursed at him, can almost feel the grip of his fingers as Harry pounds against the canvas that chains Dumbledore to his portrait, can almost imagine what it would be like to fall in love again.

In death, it is said such things are impossible. Dumbledore knows the physicality is impossible, surely, but the emotional attachment still stings his chest at the sight of Harry Potter, coming to _him_ because there is nothing else he wants more. When Harry begs him, falls to his knees and _begs_ like a dog, Dumbledore feels an anger and bitterness but also arousal that steals his breath away. He screams, can feel the rumble of his own voice in his chest, and that silences Harry, and then Dumbledore knows guilt and power in one staunch blow to his confidence and understanding and compassion.

Harry pulls at him, nags him, mouths down the fine wood that adorns his portrait for reassurance and strength and all the things that Dumbledore cannot grant him. Dumbledore tries to explain: he says things like _I am no king, no prophet, so saviour_ , but Harry is mindless in these desperate times, so Dumbledore always amends his speeches with _tell me what you want_ and gives what he can. The darkest of speeches to arouse, the flicker of anger to excite, the gentle guidance and encouraging hums to give Harry a reason to get out of bed beyond the duty he feels that tears him apart.

It is said it is impossible to touch, to be affected by the real people living on the other side of the canvas, but sometimes Dumbledore wonders if he is not the one trapped.


End file.
